


Change Is Everything

by bellakink (theoneinquisitor)



Series: the 100 kink meme 2019 [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Quickie, Dirty Talk, Exes, Explicit Sexual Content, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, The 100 (TV) Kink Meme, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 13:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/bellakink
Summary: The 100 Kink Meme (2019) Fill: Clarke + Bellamy hate each other but she runs into him at a party of Jaha's and ends up with Bell bending her over a bathroom counter and fucking her.





	Change Is Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed all tags and warnings. If it's not your cup of tea, don't drink it just to talk about how much you hate it (and that goes for all km fills). thank you, and enjoy <3

Clarke knows he’s here the moment he walks in the door. Spots his mess of dark curls, his stupid fucking smirk from a mile away. She had been naive enough to think she could have one night, just one good night, without Bellamy showing up to remind her that good doesn’t exist anymore.

She finds Wells, who is attempting to flirt with a girl from his Biology class, as though there is a pick up line somewhere in a conversation about punnett squares. She grabs his sleeve and yanks on it, drawing an annoyed glare from his usually soft features.

“Tell me you didn't invite him,” she spits, the venom on her tongue sour as it spills.

“Who?” he asks, glancing around the room as though he could have no earthly idea as to whose presence alone could send her into an angry panic.

It seems that time has been kind to everyone else, allowed them to forget and move on. Forgive, even. How could they not? It wasn’t their lives. So, of course he would come home. He'd come to parties and it's a small town, there aren't many. Frankly, she should have known. 

“Oh shit,” Wells seems to spot him over her head. He reaches down to grab her shoulders, “I didn't think... I can ask him to leave, if you want?” 

A resounding ‘yes’ is on the tip if her tongue but it catches. How long is she going to let him ruin her? How long is she going to be the one that suffers? She could keep avoiding situations that involve him, she's done pretty well thus far. But at what expense? The pity of her friends, the nights spent alone in her room because she wanted to avoid seeing him? Thinking about him? Has his life changed the way hers has? She doubts it. 

“No,” she finally answers, releasing the sleeve gripped between her fingers. “I'm not going to let him keep me from having a good time.” 

Wells grins, “That's the spirit.”

She pushes her way to the kitchen, fixing herself a drink that is a poor excuse for a mixed one. Emori offers her a shot, cheap tequila, and she shoots it back chasing it with her cup of vodka, a hint of cranberry. The crowd is thick, nearly the entire graduating class home for Christmas. Sharing stories of their first semester at University, showing off their new tolerance for alcohol now that they've spent weekend upon weekend building it up. 

She wonders what it feels like, to be in that stage of life. To not have had everything crushed into shambles by someone who was supposed to love them.  

She can’t keep doing this. She's tired. She just wants to feel okay. 

She finds her way to the beer pong table, a small crowd cheering as Raven sinks the ball into the last opposing cup.

“Game, set, match, boys,” she flips her ponytail over her shoulder, lighting up when she sees Clarke. “Finally. A challenge! What do you say, Griffin.”

It's a close game and by the time she's downing the final cup, she's good and buzzed. She feels free. Careless. And this time when someone approaches her, she doesn't shrink away. Doesn’t search for the pity in their eyes. 

“Hell of a game,” he compliments. Dax, she thinks his name is, a few years older than her if she remembers correctly. He's trying to be smooth, but she still sees the way his eyes fall to her her chest. She can’t blame him, her tits look good. A low cut top, no bra. Harper had picked it out, insisting that covering her breasts was a sin. 

“Yeah,” Raven had agreed, “And also, I think it's time you got a little action. You're too tense.”

_ Tense _ . That's what Raven says out loud. But she knows she really means  _ hung up _ . Depressed. Pitiful. The solution to all being a good fuck. It worked for her, so it has to work for Clarke. 

“How's school going for you?” Dax asks, sipping his beer. Small talk, God, she hates small talk. They both know what this is leading towards. He singled her out in the crowd, he's testing the waters. Her mouth is loose and patience thin.

“Yeah, fine.” she reaches over, placing a hand on his chest. It’s too narrow. Too soft. Not right. “Upstairs? I know a good place.”

He grins. “Lead the way.”

She sits down her drink and grabs his hand, dragging him through the living room to the stairs. Couples are staggered on each one, making out against the wall and whispering filthy things to one another. They reach the top and Clarke turns to pull him into her, pressing her tits to his chest.

_ Not right. Not right. Not right.  _

He leans down to kiss her, lips chapped and dry from wiping the beer away with the back of his hand. He's handsy, uses too much tongue. But it'll do. It's nothing. Means nothing. They stumble down the hallway, his lips nipping at her neck. She counts the doors, searching for the fifth on the left. The Jaha mansion is the perfect place for anonymous hookups. Unused bedrooms waiting to be messed. It's what made Wells so popular in high school, what has kept him popular despite everyone disappearing to school. This big empty house left to sit while Jaha Senior is off trying to save the world. 

“You're so fucking hot,” Dax growls into her ear, “Always thought so, but you were…”

_ Always his.  _ She slams her lips to his again, refusing to let the conversation turn there. She shoves open the bedroom door, but unfortunately, they were a little too late.

“Occupied!” someone shouts and they quickly shut the door again, leaving them to their own business. 

The bathroom across the hall isn't ideal, she'd much prefer the comfort of a bed. But maybe for the best. No fear of cuddling afterwards or awkwardly trying to find her underwear. She pulls him in and locks the door, pinning him against it as she attacks his mouth with hers. His hands are everywhere, slipping under her shirt, palming her ass. 

_ Not him. Not him. Not him. _

The fingers are too long, too skinny. She kisses him harder. He pulls away as she begins nibbling on her jaw, panting into her ear. “God, I should have known you'd be a freak.”

She doesn't want to think about what it means. She reaches down to unbuckle his belt as his hand slides up her skirt…

There's a loud bang on the door, the wood vibrating so hard she can feel it through his chest.

“Open the door, Clarke!” 

Is he fucking serious? She fully intends to ignore him, but Dax is quickly fixing his belt and yanking the door open, bringing her face to face with her worst fucking nightmare.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dax apologizes like some little fucking kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, “She came onto me!”

Bellamy just glares at him, moving from the doorway to let him pass. She smooths out her skirt, refusing to look at him. 

“Are you serious right now?” he asks, sounding almost hurt. She has to laugh. 

“Clarke, everyone knows he has the clap, you can do better.”

Blame the alcohol. Blame her anger. Blame her. She turns, “I don’t think that's any of your business anymore.”

He scoffs. “You've made it everyone's business, coming here with your tits practically falling out. Desperation isn't a good look on you.” 

“Fuck you,” she spits, “You don't get to fucking show up here and try to tell me how I should act. I can do whatever I want, fuck whoever I want…”

“That might be true,” he says, eyes darkening, “But you know no one can fuck you like I can. Like I have.”

She hates her body in this moment, the way her cunt throbs as soon as he says it. Aching for him because it knows he can give her what she wants. He can tell she's reacting to him, moving into the bathroom and closing the door. “Come on, babe, if a fuck is what you're looking for, I can give it to you.”

God, she knows. Knows it well. And she wishes she didn't, wishes she could shove him away and tell him to leave her alone. But he's a drug, no matter how much she hates him she still fucking wants him.

“I hate you,” she whispers, making sure he knows. Making sure he understands she can never forgive him.

He reaches up, tucking a stray curl behinds her ear, “I know, baby.”

She turns away from his touch, facing the mirror and gripping the marble under her fingers. Every inch of her conscious is telling her to leave. Walk away, walk away, don’t do this. He moves behind her, pressing her into the counter. She can already feel him through his jeans, and she arches against him, pressing her ass into the growing bulge.

“No one knows how you like it,” he whispers into her ear, “Not like I do.”

He latches onto the juncture where neck meets shoulder, biting into her skin until it stings before running is tongue over it. He repeats the gesture, teeth and tongue,  all along her throat, threading his fingers into the loose curls and scraping against her scalp. “I need you to tell me you want it.”

She wishes she could separate him into two, the person she's fucking and the person she has fucked up history with. But she can’t and her pussy is clenching at nothing, preparing already to take him in. 

“Just fuck me, you asshole,” she grounds out and she feels the hand in her hair tighten and pull. Tears spring to her eyes as he yanks on her scalp, a moan tearing from her lips. 

“You want it rough, Princess?” he asks, the old nickname falling spitefully from his lips, “You want me to fuck you like I used to?”

She smiles sadistically into the mirror, hardly even recognizing the person starting back at her. “Make it hurt.”

He slams her into the counter, her palms clapping against the marble as she catches herself. His hand pushes into the back of her head, keeping her bent over in front of him.  She grinds her ass into his erection, gaining the friction she needs to pull a growl from between his teeth. Her thighs are slick with her own arousal, already hot and ready for him. It never takes much, just his rough hand on her and she's fucking done for. It's a problem. 

She hears his zipper and feels her skirt and panties pushed up and over in one smooth motion. He pushes inside her with ease, bottoming out without any lead up because her pussy was fucking made for him, made to take him. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” he growls, pumping in and out slowly as if he needs to stretch her out, “Still so fucking tight for me.”

Her hands are splayed at the bottom of the mirror, allowing her to move against him. She uses the wall to help her push back against him, when he pulls out, she slams herself back onto his cock. She knows he likes when she takes initiative, shows that she wants it. And ever if she doesn’t want him right now, she still wants him like this. He fills her up in a way no one else ever has. Ever could. And he hits places that no one else has ever been able to, not ever herself.  

He wraps her golden curls around his fist and pulls, another pleasurable sting running along her scalp. She’s arched against the counter, tits pressed against the cool marble. He's moving at a steady pace, but it’s not enough.

“Harder.” she demands. 

“Still a fucking sadist, aren't you baby? Love it when I fuck you like this.” he picks up the pace, slamming into her so hard she slides against the counter, her skin skidding across it.He does it again, and when he bottoms out once more, his other hand comes down on her ass with an echoing smack, an anguished moan escapes. 

“Thought you'd get this from him?” Bellamy pants as he fucks into her, gripping her ass in one hand and pulling her hair with the other, using it to increase the force. “You think you'll ever be able to find someone to fuck you like you want?”

His hand comes down on her ass again and his name slips out. He picks up the pace, skin slapping skin at an alarmingly loud rate. “God, your cunt. So fucking perfect. Just for me. Mine. Mine.”

It shouldn’t still affect her. She's not his anymore. She's not. But she feels the coil within her growing tighter and tighter, approaching release. “Fuck, I’m gonna…”

“You gonna come for me, babe? You gonna yell my name? Come on my cock.” He releases her hair, allowing her neck to snap forward towards the mirror. She watches as he fucks into her, sees herself, flushed and aroused and close to coming. She hates herself for this, for letting him get her this way.

His eyes meet hers, almost black as he stares, and he smirks. “You like seeing me behind you? Knowing I'm the only one who can make you feel like this?”

“I hate you,” she says again. He wraps his arm around her to pull her up, her back pressed into his chest as she arches further into him. His hand moves from her ass to her neck, fingers thick as they wrap around her throat and hold her there. He applies just enough pressure to leave mark but not to cut off her airways. She knows when she sees the thumbprint near her jaw, she’s going to hate herself even more. But for now, it pushes her closer to edge. 

“Come for me,” he growls into her ear, fucking up into her, hitting that sweet spot only he knows exists. 

She shakes against him as it starts, her cunt clenching his cock like it could keep him there forever. Her vision blurs and she cries out his name once more as she comes, a wave of pleasure coursing through her body like an electric current.

“That's it, baby,” he grunts and even in her haze, she can feels his cock harden and then pulse as he comes with her.  Comes inside of her.

“Fuck, Bell,” she hisses when she feels his warmth spread deep within her cunt. So familiar. So hot. She could probably come again within minutes from the thought alone - something else only Bellamy can do. One orgasm through penetration was anomaly to her before him, and yet he can give her multiples without breaking a sweat. 

She sags against him as he catches his breath, his arm still wrapped around her waist to hold her up. His thumb is stroking soothing circles into her scalp and for a moment, she lets herself pretend that everything's okay.

But it's not. He still betrayed her. She still left him. It's not fixed with a quick fuck in the bathroom. He seems to realize that, too, releasing her so she is forced to lean on the counter to keep herself upright. He pulls out, and she can feel is come leaking from her cunt. Knows she'll be feeling that the rest of the night. 

She adjusts her skirt as he zips up his pants, and catches his eye in the mirror. He looks almost.. sad. Like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, probably to tell her it was a mistake. Or to chide her for knowing that he's the best she'll ever have. She's not anything to him.

She beats him to the punch. “This changes nothing.” 

**Author's Note:**

> how about some angsty exes fucking in the bathroom for this fine monday?  
> you can find me on tumblr: octannibal-blake
> 
> (also, I will be posting all my fills as I edit/expand them so be on the look out for more filth and try not to hate me for it)


End file.
